


Syrnia strix

by starcunning



Series: Erebidae [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Aetherial Manipulation (not the BLM ability), BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Branding, F/M, Forced Orgasm, Jealousy, Magical Bondage, Orgasm Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, did we just invent the sybian for eorzea? yes we did, technically kallie's not the MAIN wol but u kno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2020-08-23 05:04:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20237203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starcunning/pseuds/starcunning
Summary: “I know you can hear me,” Nabriales groused, his breath skating over her neck. “Youalonecan hear me. Do not pretend otherwise.”It was sometime in the middle of her negotiating the price and grade of the materia that Nabriales ran the backs of his fingers over her the side of her neck, making her shiver. “You know there will be consequences for your impudence later,” the Ascian purred.Kallisti did not turn her head, watching the melder be about his work with dispassionate interest. “I’m counting on it,” she said, and then went back to sifting through her coin purse.





	Syrnia strix

**Author's Note:**

> More [imports from tumblr.](https://starcunning.tumblr.com/post/179228321559/syrnia-strix) This fic was in response to a private request from the same anon that inspired Erebus marquesi.
> 
> _Syrnia strix_ is another name for Thysania agrippina, the white witch or great owlet moth.

Rain beat down on the roof of the Ebony Stalls; though the wooden vaults were far overhead, the sound could be heard over the din of the crowd. It was thin this day, the inclement weather proving far more impediment to others than to Kallisti. She was watching the guild craftsman affix a handful of materia to her staff, the crystalline aether glittering like eyes in the empty sockets of the skull that topped the weapon.

There was the briefest flutter of a breeze, and she felt cool metal skate delicately over the taper of her ear. Kallisti glanced back, keeping her expression carefully neutral, and found the Ascian looking back at her, his lips curved in a smirk.  
“We should speak now,” Nabriales told her.  
At the very same moment, the melder returned to the counter, setting her channeling rod down between them. “You’re all set,” he said. He smiled at Kallisti, seeming not to notice the shadow at her shoulder.  
“Great,” she chirped, reaching for her coinpurse. “What do I owe?”  
He told her, and Kallisti began counting out her coins slowly, stacking them on the counter and nudging them across slowly.  
“I know you can hear me,” Nabriales groused, his breath skating over her neck. “You _alone_ can hear me. Do not pretend otherwise.”

Kallisti smiled to herself, her cheeks dimpling, and then she scooped her coins aside. “You know what?” she said. “I forgot, I need something else too.” She reached for the athame that hung from her belt. “Can you do something with this?” she asked, blinking her luminous eyes at the melder.  
“Do you have your own materia to affix to it?” the craftsman asked. “You only gave me the two I placed already.”  
“No,” Kallisti said, tone sing-song. “Don’t you have any on hand I could buy?”  
Nabriales scoffed. His annoyed sigh gusted through her hair, and she felt her ear flick in response to the sensation.

It was sometime in the middle of her negotiating the price and grade of the materia that Nabriales ran the backs of his fingers over her the side of her neck, making her shiver. “You know there will be consequences for your impudence later,” the Ascian purred.  
Kallisti did not turn her head, watching the melder be about his work with dispassionate interest. “I’m counting on it,” she said, and then went back to sifting through her coin purse.

Nabriales did not leave her to this in peace, leaning in to graze the nape of her neck with his teeth, just at the site of a fading love-bite from one of their previous encounters. There had been a few, since the Chrysalis—affairs of desperate ardor, over as swiftly as they had begun. This was the first time he had come to her in public. She set her jaw against the temptation to whimper and tried to keep her mind on the count, though Kallisti could feel her hands growing unsteady.

The intensity of his focus was a surprise to her, although Kallisti refused to allow it to show. She could allow nothing of her reaction to show, but her cheeks were hot anyway. She tipped her head down, hoping the shade from the brim of her hat would mask it.

“Actually,” she said as the melder approached the counter once more, “I don’t have enough all in cash. I have a promissory note you can tender against Alphinaud Leveilleur’s account,” Kallisti offered, slowly beginning to scoop her coins back up.  
“Alright,” the craftsman said, sounding wearied. Looking at her, his eyes narrowed. “You know, you’re looking a little feverish. I’ve a friend in the conjurer’s guild.”  
Kallisti shook her head, her laughter lurching from her throat as Nabriales nuzzled against the crux of her shoulder. “I’ll be alright,” she said, rummaging about in her bag to find the bit of scrip with the Crystal Braves’ insignia stamped on it and mark off the denomination and her authorization. It was much too much a sum, but with the cost of the undertaking already, Kallisti didn’t figure the lordling would miss it. And she could expect Nabriales to stretch his patience only so far—to say nothing of her own. She scattered a few coins across the countertop as she tried to shovel them back into her bag, then waved the whole affair off. “Keep it,” she said. “For your efforts.”  
Then, with her rod and athame—and her shadowless shadow—Kallisti rushed from the markets into the evening gloom of Gridania.  
“Are you finished now?” Nabriales asked.  
She answered him not with words but simply by ducking into a copse of trees where she could go unseen by those passing the paths nearby.  
He took her hand, and the city faded from view.

It felt not unlike teleportation by aetheryte—the same sense of something yanking one by the gut, the momentary disorientation—but when Kallisti blinked to clear her head she was in no town square or wilderness camp, but an apartment. The air was warm and dry, especially after the rain in the Shroud. There was a single window, and she could see the lights of other buildings from it in the instant she had to drink in her surroundings. Then Nabriales was before her, his face inches from her own. Even half-hidden she could see the frustration in his expression, the tension in the set of his jaw.

She leaned in to kiss that anguished mouth, but he lifted a hand to seize her by the throat and keep her from closing the distance. Even that cruel touch stoked the flames of her desire, her playful inattention giving way to a need both more genuine and more deliberate.  
“Nabriales,” she mewled.  
He pushed, and she stumbled back half a step. “Strip,” he told her, and then he turned away. “I expect you to be more ready for me when next I return.”

The coolness of his tone made her shiver, and she wondered for a moment if she had overplayed her hand. Little she could do about it if so, other than abide by his requests. She watched him go from the room and close the door behind him—heavy, of dark wood, his body obscuring whatever waited beyond. As she undressed, Kallie took in her surroundings more completely.

The large desk opposite the door marked it as an office of some sort. She draped her shawl over the high-backed leather chair, not daring to open the ledger that lay atop the desk blotter. A handful of crystals and knick-knacks were scattered over the surface, most of precious metal or carved from bone. She looked up to see mounted to the wall opposite a glass case containing a number of beastman fetishes, and wondered what Lensha had imagined Rowena was doing with them. The rug was Thavnairian, soft underfoot when she kicked her boots off. The leather was of a rich, dark color that was the house mark of Fen-Yll Fineries. Her discarded robes slithered from its plushness to pool on the floor. She left them there, crossing to the window to peer out. Ul’dah, she surmised, lifting a hand to the back of her neck, just below the fringe of her hair. The bite mark had faded, no longer legible to her fingers, and when she pressed against the skin she felt no spark of sensation. Kallie felt robbed, somehow. She heard the click of the doorknob turning and straightened, turning from the window.

The thing looked like a chocobo saddle. That was her first impression of it as Nabriales set it on the floor a few feet from the desk. He nudged it with one boot, waving her over. She came as he bid her, hoping perhaps to slip under his arm, but he withdrew as she advanced, looking down at it. Half a cylinder in shape, the flat of it rested atop the center of the rug, its rich patterns in stark contrast to the black leather of the device. At its apex glittered a shaft of glass, and she almost giggled.

“Kneel,” he told her, and she did, straddling the thing. The shaft was cool against the curve of her mound, the leather soft against her thighs. She looked up at Nabriales for a moment, and he looked away. “Well?” he said after a moment, impatience still dripping from his tone. “Get on.” Kallie lifted herself from her seat, inching forward. She reached down to skim her fingers over her vulva, parting her nether lips so that she could sink onto the glass with a shiver. Nabriales said nothing as she arched and settled, grinding against the leather. He lifted a hand to gesture, and she felt her arms wrench backward, her wrists bound at the small of her back. Wriggling to assert her balance, Kallie found her legs shackled too by the skeins of umbral aether that were the Ascian’s trademark, bound ankle to thigh. She shifted her weight, rolling her hips to jostle the shaft inside her, but could do little enough. Then he walked away, crossing to his desk.

She looked back over her shoulder as she heard him scoff, but could not crane her neck far enough to see. A moment later she heard cloth hit the floor, and glanced aside to see it was her own discarded robes, cast aside carelessly. The leather of that grand chair creaked as Nabriales sat down, and Kallisti sighed, turning her face forward again. Nothing there but the door and the grotesque display of bones and feathers.

She heard the rumble more than felt it at first, and realized all at once her error—not glass inside her but _crystal,_ pulsing now with aether, rising to a low hum that danced along the limits of her sensation. “Nabriales,” she gasped.  
“You _ignored_ me,” the Ascian reminded her. “I did warn you there would be consequences.”  
Her tail lashed and coiled behind her, but she made no reply. So this was what she had goaded him to. It seemed not so terrible a thing, Kallie thought, rocking herself shallowly against the base of the shaft, feeling it warm within her. She lifted her chin, shaking back her hair, and heard the sound of wood on wood—the opening of a desk drawer—and Nabriales rifling through its contents. A moment later followed the soft _paff_ of a book falling open and the scratching of a quill. Under all ran the aetherial pulse of the toy inside her, slowly throbbing with insistence. She had no leverage to move beyond leaning forward, pressing her clit more firmly to the base of the shaft.

It was pleasant enough, Kallie had to admit. Even with the pall of Nabriales’s displeasure hanging over her head, she soon found herself whimpering. The sound echoed off the sandstone walls, filling the space, though Nabriales seemed not to hear. From him she heard only the rifling of papers, the soft scrape of quill against the glass lip of the inkwell—the sounds of business as usual, even as her moans rose in pitch. She could feel her muscles grow tight in anticipation of her climax, her eyes screwing shut, her lips bowing around her lover’s name in a plea for clemency.

All at once it stopped.

The toy was still inside her, the vibrations of its aether absent as though they had never been, though the smooth surface of the shaft remained warm as before. She whined, despairing, as she wriggled atop the thing, chasing orgasm even as it slipped away from her, leaving her slumped there in defeat, the tip of her tail twitching against the carpet.

How vicious his retribution, Kallisti thought.

She remained there a long few moments, awaiting release of one kind or another, but neither found her. Instead the toy jumped to life—not the gentle rising tide of before, but an insistent pulse that brought her right back to the brink. She tried to hold out a while longer, as though she could memorize the sensations as she arched and writhed atop it. When her peak seemed near, trying to stave off the moment the sensations died once more, Kallie strained against the bonds of her legs, thighs cramping with the effort to lift herself, just a fraction, just enough to—

“Nabriales.”  
It was not her voice that spoke that name, but another, low and gravelly and male. She barely heard it, overwhelmed as she was, but it surprised her almost more than the absence of sensation that followed. She gasped for air, sagging atop the saddle.  
“I should not have to go _looking_ for you. Why were you not where you were expected?”  
Kallie wondered if she had for a moment become invisible. She opened her eyes slowly and found standing before her a man in white robes and a mask the same crimson as Nabriales’s. Its form was different, she could see at a glance; absent the fangs that graced the lower terminus of the other Ascian’s mask. The nose was more prominent, almost beaklike, finials molded to the leather.  
“I’m _busy,_” Nabriales groused.  
“Quite,” the white-robed Ascian said, looking down at Kallie for a moment. He lifted a hand, the tips of his claws ghosting over her cheek. “Ah,” he said. “This is the one whose aetherial signature was all over the Chrysalis.” His hand dropped away, and Kallie bit back a whine. “The two of you are _not_ subtle. What are you doing, Nabriales?”  
“Nothing that need concern _you,_ Elidibus,” Nabriales said, genuinely nettled. “It is not your place to interfere with this.”  
“It is not _yours_ to stop me,” said Elidibus. He cupped her chin, as though she needed any further coaxing to look at him. “She is diverting, though,” he allowed. “Little thing, you deserve a better class of instructor, if it is indeed instruction you crave …”  
“Elidibus,” growled Nabriales.

His voice felt distant, however, and though Kallie could not move and all was still around her—although Elidibus never lifted his hand from her chin, she felt sensation ripple over her body, lapping at her like the waves of a vast sea. Pleasure prickled down her spine, making her hair stand on end, pricking up her ears. She whimpered, toes curling as though needle-pricked, sensation sharp and cold as snow. The tip of his claw skimmed over her parted lips, and that alone was enough; she felt her walls clench around the toy, still and hard while every other part of her trembled with need. Kallisti moaned, straining against her bonds to lean into that ghostly touch, the barest flutter of sensation setting her alight.

Elidibus chuckled, low and dark. He drew his hand away a moment later. “We will speak of this later, Nabriales,” he said. Kallie leaned after him as he withdrew, but he was gone a moment later, one last burst of aether sweeping over her cheek.

Nabriales cursed, and she heard the scrape of wood against stone as he stood, forcing back his chair. There were no footsteps for him to chase, but Nabriales interposed himself between Kallisti and the door just the same, his shoulders drawn upward. When he turned back toward her, the whole of his face was obscured with a sigil of crimson light. It looked like a pyramid, buttressed on each side with crude wings or else the same parallel slashes that marked Nabriales’s mask. He loosed her bonds and she sagged forward, reaching out to grasp at the folds of his robe. He caught her, pulling her to her feet. Her legs ached, and she stumbled. Nabriales caught her, pulling her in to rest her weight against his chest, and though she listened, she could not hear the beat of his heart.

“Kallisti,” he said, voice taut with anger.  
“Who _was_ that?” she asked, bewildered.  
“Elidibus,” Nabriales reiterated, disdain like venom on his tongue. The crimson sigil seemed to flare brighter for a moment with the spike in emotion. “You may think of him like a meddlesome elder brother,” he continued.  
Kallisti felt her cheeks burn with the recollection of how exposed she had been before him—not merely naked but vulnerable—and how much further she had exposed herself. “What does he want?”  
“I had assumed that was obvious after _that_ little display,” Nabriales huffed. “He wants _you,_ little fool. But you are mine, are you not?”  
Kallisti considered the question a moment. Elidibus seemed a winter of his own making—quiet and implacable and unending. Not least compared to Nabriales’s intemperance. His was the beauty of frost on window panes, but Kallie had the fire of meteors in her heart. “I’m not _his,_” she asserted.  
“Are you mine?” Nabriales asked, his hand clutching at her shoulder. There was relief in that desperate embrace.  
“Yes,” Kallisti said.  
“Soul and body, mine alone,” Nabriales growled.  
“Yes,” Kallisti asserted, lifting her mouth to his beneath the mask. The sigil flickered and disappeared in a spray of crimson light.

His kiss was crushing, furious, his teeth raking her lips, tongue delving between them to claim her. He walked her backward toward the desk and she perched on its edge, wrapping her legs around him. Nabriales drew back, and though she could not see his eyes behind the mask she was sure they were upon her. He put his gloved hand to her throat, grasping tightly enough that she felt her head swim already. The fingers of his other hand wound through her hair, skimming over the nape of her neck, brushing the lovebite that had faded there. She felt it now, the dull ache of old pain rekindled, warm and smothering as too many blankets.

Kallisti clung to him closer still, her eyes closing to make the darkness absolute, relishing the warmth of him, the way his name felt as it passed her lips. She quivered, arching herself against him, but his hands never strayed below her shoulders. She could breathe, despite his hold on her, but her blood thundered in her ears. He released her in a single rush of coolness, and somehow all the dull ache that radiated down her spine seemed swept all the way down to her needy cunt, and she came, clutching at him, whimpering his name.

He took her hand then, pulling it from his chest to curl her fingers about the nape of her neck, the pad of his index finger pressing hers to to the knob of her spine. There was an indent there, and the feeling of scar tissue. She ran her finger delicately over the spot, though it made her shiver.

It was a pyramid, flanked with crude wings or insect eyes.


End file.
